


Advent XXVI

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Diplomacy, Gen, Mycroft IS the British Government, Peace, Peacekeepers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is the British Government, even on Christmas Night.</p><p>Sherlock, however, is his brother. For whatever that is worth. XD</p><p>(Or, sometimes it's good to be The British Government--but even better to be Mycroft Holmes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XXVI

“He a football fan?” Janine asked as she watched Lestrade watch the Twelfth Doctor deal with Santa.

Sherlock, self-consciously sprawled on the sofa beside her, trying to pretend he was unaware of his arm arched along the sofa back just over her shoulders and equally unaware of the eyes of all the adults present watching him pretend to be unaware of his arm arched along the sofa back just over her shoulders,  glanced at the older man—a man no one would believe older going by energy, excitement and demeanor that night. He grinned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

She laughed “’Cause I bet he’s a riot during a game. Bouncin’ around faster than the ball, I bet.”

“You’d win the bet.” Sherlock laughed himself. “I saw him get so excited he tossed a pint of beer all over the other people at the pub when his team made the winning goal.”

“Must have been popular for that.”

“No. But he was when he bought everyone a round to apologize.”

She chuckled. “Good instincts, that one.”

“Yes. It means he’s outnumbered in this family.”

She chuckled again. “Not so much. The lot of you are clever and crazy—but not so daft as you make out.” She considered. “Nor is he,” she added. “He’s a sly one, that one, isn’t he? Smarter than he pretends to be.”

Sherlock smiled, and chose not to answer—making her laugh again.

He liked it when she laughed—a fact that surprised him.

He rose, and looked down. “I’m going to get some scotch,” he said. “Can I offer any?”

“Rather have some Irish, if you’ve got it.”

Without looking away, Sherlock called, quietly, “Mike—we have any Irish whiskey?”

  
“Jameson’s or Redbreast, whichever she likes,” Mycroft replied, no more looking at Sherlock than Sherlock looked at him.

“Redbreast,” she said, grinning.

“A woman of taste and intelligence,” Mycroft said. “I approve.” There was laughter lurking in his voice.

Sherlock shot him an evil look that went entirely unnoticed. Mycroft’s eyes were pinned to his partner, who sat on the floor by Mycroft’s knees, chattering animatedly at the screen of the telly.

“No, no, no, it’s pure trouble,” Lestrade growled. “You’re going to regret it.”

“’Course he won’t,” Mycroft said. “First he’ll run and then he’ll talk and then he’ll figure a way out of it all.”

Lestrade smacked Mycroft’s shins. “Hesh, you. It’s not the formula, it’s the clever way they deploy the formula…Awww! Doctor, that was a mistake!”

“Where’s the Redbreast, Mike?”

“Locked drawer of the desk in the library.”

Sherlock nodded and started to turn. Janine caught his sleeve. “Don’t you need the key?”

Mycroft, down the sofa, snorted. “’Course he doesn’t need the key.”

“’Course I don’t,” Sherlock agreed.

“Lock hasn’t stopped him in twenty years or more,” Mycroft added, never looking away from Lestrade or the screen—one or the other, and the screen only so that he could track Lestrade’s crows and mutters and cheers.

Sherlock winked at her. “It’s a Holmes thing,” he said, and sloped off, feeling bold and cheeky and on unexpectedly good terms with his world. He came back in time to hear the busy, happy, driving notes of the special as the credits ran, with Lestrade chattering across the room with Mummy over the lunatic fantasy pseudoscience of Doctor Who, and Father murmuring something to Mary, and John bouncing little Em on his knee singing “I’ll sing you one, ho! Green grow the rushes, ho!” so badly it would be a wonder if the child’s sensibilities were to remain intact. But, then, perhaps she’d inherited John’s natural skills—none whatsoever—and would go untraumatised for lack of awareness of what she had witnessed.

Mike leaned in his corner of the sofa, eyes watching Lestrade. His hand was in his pocket.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Besotted. His brother was besotted—and if Sherlock had his way he would never be allowed to live it down.

“Oi,” Janine said. “Booze, mate. Dyin’, here.”

He handed her the glass, and coiled himself carefully beside her, making sure the arm he needed to go on the back of the sofa was not associated with the hand he needed to hold his own glass of Redbreast. “Watch it,” he said, smirking. “I’m told that stuff is addictive.”

“Prat,” she growled—and to his uneasy surprise settled back into the sofa, leaning her neck into his arm. She sipped the Redbreast, and sighed happily. “Oh, now, that’s peng!”

“Mmmm,” he agreed—and it was, though he was amazed to realize he’d have agreed with her even if it hadn’t been rich as double-cream and densely malty and smoky—a pleasing, brawny glass he could easily come to love.

They were silent, then, watching their friends. Em sang back at her father, who’d made it up to “Three, three, the rivals.” Mummy and Lestrade had somehow shifted to mathematical algorithms for parceling out surveillance assignments in high-population and high-traffic districts. Father had drifted over to look at the available DVDs. Mary was chatting with Anthea—Sherlock couldn’t decide if they were discussing men or weapons. Or both…

“I’m glad I came,” Janine said, sliding a few inches over, until she was tucked into the curve of arm and shoulder and flank, her head on his shoulder.

He swallowed. “You are. I mean—you are?”

She chuckled. “I are.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the strange, alien excitement wash over him. “You don’t mind my family?”

“I really like your family. You’re all fierce and deadly as Kilkenny cats, the lot o’ ye’, but there’s a sweetness, you know?” She nestled closer, and sighed.

He just smiled, stupidly.

Mycroft’s phone rang. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down the sofa just in time to see his brother glance at the little screen and shift from contented happiness to red alert. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I need to take this.” He uncoiled from the sofa, risked one tender brush of his fingers over Lestrade’s hair, and slid away.

The room fell silent. Then, warily, Father said, “How serious is it likely to be? Christmas night, after all…”

“Serious enough to take Mike away from the table on Christmas night,” Mummy said, her eyes alert and thoughtful. She glanced at Sherlock. “Any idea what’s on the burner?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He keeps his own council, Mummy.”

“He always did,” she said, softly.

“Well,” Mary said, artificially bright. “What about another show? Blackadder Christmas Carol?”

“Sounds good to me,” Lestrade said, forcing cheerfulness.

They laughed far more loudly at Blackadder while appreciating it far less than one might expect.

“How bad is it?” Janine whispered, when she thought she could ask unnoticed.

Sherlock pulled her close. “Bad enough,” he said. “Mike would be back in if it wasn’t something nasty.”

“How nasty?”

“To bring him in on Christmas Night?”

“D’oh.”

Sherlock considered.

On the one hand, he couldn’t imagine anyone being fool enough to call his brother on Christmas Night if it wasn’t world-class trouble. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine anyone getting into trouble this deep without Mycroft having been called in long before and more casually. And—people wanted fast answers of their own on Christmas Night. What were the odds, he wondered, of someone calling in The British Government first, instead of last, in the hopes of a quick resolution?

“Back in a minute” he whispered, and dropped a kiss on Janine’s brow.

“Come with you?” she asked as he rose.

He shook his head. “If I’m wrong, and you overhear the wrong things, he’ll either have to shoot you or recruit you.”

“Is that how you ended up working with him? He preferred recruiting you?”

“No—he tried shooting me, and it didn’t work out for him,” he said, grinning, and ghosted away toward the library. As he approached the door he slid into stealth mode, cat-footing across the parquet and easing the door open.

“No,” Mycroft said, voice firm and forceful. “No, damn it. Tell Nordcroft to stand the troops down. No, stand down! This is not a shooting war yet, and we don’t want it to turn into one. No. No. Look, connect me with Ambersleigh. Now. Excuse me, I don’t care how much you don’t want to wake him—connect me now.”

He heard Mycroft sigh, weary and frustrated. He cracked the door further.

Mycroft was silhouetted against the French windows, the moon streaming in softly, its fullness dulled by light haze overhead. Even as he continued to argue with whoever was online, he found the bottle of Redbreast, now on the shelf with the good scotch. He hefted the bottle, rolled it lightly as he watched the liquor swirl and shine, then poured himself a glass. He put the bottle back and raised the drink to his mouth, catching a sip during an interval between talking to one person and another.

“No! Ambersleigh, not his adjutant. Now.”

Sherlock felt a sudden rage of frustration for Mycroft—Mycroft, who would spend hours in patient, tense conversation searching for the best possible outcome. Frowning, Sherlock stalked into the room and snatched the phone out of Mycroft’s hands, ignoring his brother’s startled, appalled squawk.

“Hello,” he said, sharply. “This is Sherlock Holmes. You’ve heard of me? Yes. That Holmes. Yes—definitely that Holmes. Mmm. Yes. No, I won’t give you back to my brother. I want you to listen very carefully. Mycroft will treat you entirely too well. I won’t. This is Christmas Night, and you’ve made dog’s dinner of a diplomatic situation, letting it go far beyond what is reasonable. Don’t ask how I know—I _deduced it_ , you moron. I’m Sherlock Holmes—remember? _That_ Sherlock Holmes? Right. Now, back to where we were, and do try to keep up. You’ve bollocksed up this situation and now you’re hoping my brother can pull your own bollocks out of the fire, because it’s Christmas Night and you’re lazy and you’ll look much less stupid if it took Mycroft Holmes to resolve the problem than if you have to spend ten hours or so groveling and licking boots and resolving it yourself. But you’re not getting Mycroft. Why? Oh, that’s simple—because I’ve taken an interest. If you get any Holmes tonight, you’re getting me—in all my diplomatic, tactful glory. Yes. Yes, I thought you might feel that way. Yes. I’m sure you will. Good. No, don’t call us back if it all goes pear-shaped—fix it. Yourself. Yes. Happy Christmas to you, too. Yes. Good night.”

He clicked the phone off and handed it to his brother. “There. Done.” He frowned. “By the way—who was that?”

“Mmm. Senior General at the Pentagon.”

“Nuclear capacity?”

“Rather a lot, actually.”

“Is he considering using it?”

“He was.”

“And now?”

Mycroft shrugged, and gulped down a solid shot of the Redbreast. “You tell me.”

Sherlock hummed and sighed. He looked at his glass, still in his hand through all of it—the sneak up to the library, the eavesdropping, the entrance, the confrontation with the moron on the phone. “I think I need another drink.”

“Here—I’ll pour.”

They both sipped quietly in the dark room, waiting for Mycroft’s phone to ring again.

“Do you remember the choir at Eton?” Mycroft asked, his voice thin and tense.

“Mmmm.”

“It’s stupid…but every time I find myself dealing with something like this, I keep remembering the choir master teaching us to sing ‘Dona Nobis Pacem.’ So trite.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “If you can’t pray for peace when war is on the doorstep…well….”

“Mmm.” Mycroft said.

They made not a sound—and, yet, the fugue played out between them, looping over and over, in and around.

_Dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem…._

_Give us peace, give us peace, give us peace…._

It was almost a half an hour before Sherlock said, softly, “If they haven’t called you back, I think you can safely risk dinner.”

“I daresay you’re right.”

“It would be a shame to miss the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding.”

“Absolutely.” Mycroft put his glass down on the desk. Then, softly, he said, “That was…not a solution I would have thought of—nor one I’m likely to repeat. But it appears to have worked. Thank you.”

Sherlock sniffed. “You owe me,” he said, voice sarky.

Mycroft’s voice smiled back. “I probably do,” he said, and they went out to the Great Hall together, to bring their family in to Christmas Dinner.

 

 **Nota Bene:** Short and sweet this time.

[Green Grow the Rushes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rT2a5Zvxg4g)

[Dona Nobis Pacem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYQ4mU1BVIY)

 


End file.
